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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


SUsabetlj 


VERSE 


—  BY  — 


ELIZABETH  OERBERDINO 


Walter  N.  Brunt 

Press 

880  Mission  St., 
San  Francisco 


Copyright  1915 
Elizabeth  Gerberding 


'    .'    •  *      j»     '•;   ^ 

••.:** •*»•**••     '- !,  I 


THE  CANAL. 

Hail  to  the  mighty  thought, 
Hail  to  the  man  who  fought, 
Hail  to  the  men  who  wrought, 
Hail,  all  hail  the  CANAL! 

They  cleft  a  continent  in  twain, 
They  cleft  the  black  spine  of  the  land, 
They  cleft  the  red  quicksilver  sand, 
They  hewed  their  way  from  main  to  main. 

To  work  the  white  man's  will  to  fight, 
A  hundred  thousand  black  men  slaved 
In  jungle,  pit  and  swamp,  and  braved 
Each  hour  the  wrack  of  dynamite. 

Gaunt  giant  cable  towers  strode, 
Flung  far  their  web  of  spider  strands, 
A-pace  they  wove  their  iron  bands, 
And  breathless,  strode  along  the  road. 

Giraffe-like  drills  stamped  fast  their  feet, 
Spurred  on  for  fear  of  being  late 
With  their  allotment  to  create 
Straight,  slender  wells  where  forces  meet. 

Great  dredgers  ate  a  mountain  through, 
Ate  in  the  morning,  noon  and  night, 
A-tier  on  tier  to  a  dizzy  height, 
Till  all  the  slipping  land  they  drew. 

In  monster  caverns  locks  were  set, — 
The  man-made  fiords  of  Panama, — 
And,  flooding  through  them  from  afar 
The  waters  of  the  oceans  met. 

For  this  there  flowered  in  the  West, 
The  beauty  of  the  world  of  art, 
The  fruit  of  ages  and  the  heart 
Of  all  endeavor  in  the  best. 

But  palaces  and  courts  will  live: 
The  cloisters  in  the  patio, 
The  pillared  lake,  the  glow  will  go 
With  us  through  all  the  years  we  live. 

We  see  and  we  shall  always  see 
The  beauty  of  this  gift  of  Fate, 
And  we  shall  see  across  the  Gate 
An  arch  of  triumph  frame  the  sea. 

Hail,  all  hail  the  CANAL! 


WHAT  SEES  THE  OWL? 

His  velvet  wing  sweeps  through  the  night; 

With  magic  of  his  wondrous  sight 

He   oversees  his  vast  domain, 

And  king  supreme  of  night  doth  reign. 

Around  him  lies  a  silent  world, 
The  day  with  all  its  noise  is  furled; 
When  every  shadow  seems  a  moon 
And  every  light  a  sun  at  noon. 

How  welcome  from  the  blinding  glare 
Is  the  cool  grayness  of  the  air! 
How  sweet  the  power  to  reign,  a  king, 
When  day  his  banishment  will  bring! 

For  him  the  colorless  moonlight 
Burns  brilliant,  an  aurora  bright; 
The  forest's  deepest  gloom  stands  clear 
From  mystery  and  helpless  fear. 

He  sees  the  silver  cobwebs  spun, 
The  dewdrops  set  the  flowers  have  won, 
The  firefly's  gleam  offends  his  sight, 
It  seems  a  spark  of  fierce  sunlight. 

Clear  winter  nights  when  he  so  bold, 
"For  all  his  feathers  is  a-cold," 
Sees  the  Frost-spirit  fling  his  lace 
And  fashion  icicles  apace, 

At  his  weird  call  afar  and  faint, 
A  sleepy  echo,  like  the  quaint 
Last  notes  of  some  wild  chant,  replies, 
And  mocks  his  solitude, — and  dies. 


TO  A  PLAYER  (Ellen  Terry). 

As  when  a  mesmerist  enchains  the  thought 
And  holds  another's  will  till  he  shall  grow 
The  slave  of  slaves  a  subtle  power  has  wrought, 
To  serve  the  fancy  of  a  friend  or  foe, 
So,  queen  of  human  joy  and  human  woe, 
You  hold  humanity  a  willing  slave; 
Lost  to  itself  it  lives  in  you  to  know 
What  vistas  stretch  from  cradle  unto  grave. 
And,  as  you  blend  together  hopes  and  fears 
A  breathless  watcher  sheds  forgotten  tears; 
Or,  in  the  picture  of  a  phantom  crime, 
Feels  once  again  a  peril  lost  in  time. 
Oh,  painter  of  life's  pictures,  Age  and  Youth 
Behold  your  brush  dipped  in  the  vivid  truth! 


TO  A  SUN  DIAL. 

Before  you,  shadowy  messenger  of  time, — 
A  herald  caught  within  a  mesh  of  laws, — 
I  see  the  ghosts  of  by-gone  ages  pause, 
And  note  the  warning  traced  upon  your  face. 
Sometimes,  you  marked  for  them  a  day  of  joy 
That  beat  its  rapturous  moments  all  too  fast; 
Sometimes,  a  cruel  day  dragged  through  at  last, 
And  left  a  broken  life  upon  your  wheel. 
In   sunlight,   stern,  inexorable,   grim, 
You  breathed  an  exhortation  like  a  hymn; 
And  in  the  storm  a  silence  eloquent, 
To  tell  eternal  vigilance  was  sent. 
Yet,  life  was  ever  then  as  now,  a  race, 
A  fleeting  shadow  on  a  dial's  face. 


TO  THE  REDWOOD. 

Within  thy  mighty  shaft,  Oh  redwood  tree! 

A  legend  like  a  guarded  secret  lies. 

Oh  give  it  to  thy  friends  whose  loving  eyes 

Behold  the  best  of  Nature's  work  in  thee! 

It  breathes  a  wondrous  tale  of  priests  who  came 

In  treasure-laden  ships  from  India's  strand, 

To  rear  within  this  fabled  eastern  land 

The  temples  of  their  faith  in  Buddha's  name. 

Transformed  to  forest  monarchs,  mute  they  dwell; 

The  spirit  of  the  New  World  wrought  the  spell, 

That,  ages  after,  one  should  come  and  claim 

The  glory  in  a  greater  prophet's  name. 

Yet  not  in  vain  thy  faith,  Oh  tree  divine, 

The  fairest  temple  of  the  world  is  thine! 


TO  "THE  BEND." 

All  the  thoughts  within  my  quiver, 

Of  the  blue  enamelled  river, 

Of  the  forest  calling  ever, 

"To  my  red  gods  yield  forever," 

Fail,  and  ever  my  endeavor 

Sends  no  arrow  to  its  end 

In  the  praises  of  The  Bend. 


TO  AN  OLD  MAN. 

(G.  T.  B.) 
Oh,  friend  whose  genial  soul  to  all  endears 

Solve  but  this  riddle,  tell  us  this,  Oh  Sage! 
Almost  a  century  of  life  in  years, 

Yet  twenty  summers  count  thy  spirit's  age. 
What  is  the  secret  of  thy  silvered  head, 

Thine  ever-buoyant  heart  of  youth  denies? 

What  is  the  mystic  power  that  fain  defies 
Old  Age  who  plans  no  more  but  waits  instead? 
To  thee  in  loving  pledge  it  hath  been  said 

Thou  art  too  wise  to  be  forever  wise: 

Is  this  the  spring  where  thine  elixir  lies 
And  cheer  and  jest  its  magic  fountain  head? 
Perchance,  it  may  be  this  one  happy  truth, 

For  boon  companion  thou  hast  chosen  Youth. 


LABOR  AND  CAPITAL. 

Two  men  are  face  to  face  within  a  boat: 

The  one  bends  all  his  strength  to  pull  the  oars, 
The  other  holds  the  tiller  ropes, — afloat, 

The  boat  glides  on  between  the  watching  shores. 
Deep  in  the  stream  the  weighted  stern  sinks  near, 

Weighted  with  gold  the  steersman  hoards  and  holds; 
Above  the  flood  the  lightened  bow  swings  clear, — 

Until  the  maelstrom  seizes  and  enfolds. 
Out  of  the  whirlpool  will  the  stronger  one 

Swim  for  his  life,  unweighted,  right  the  boat, 
Seize  the  lost  oars  and  tiller  he  has  won, 

Be  oarsman,  steersman,  both, — if  he  would  float. 
God  grant  that  ere  this  come,  these  two  who  hate, 
May  love,  and  see  the  danger  of  this  fate! 


THE  COMRADESHIP. 
The  world, — a  jungle  to  the  traveller 

Who  treads  its  tangled  wilderness  alone, 
Fearful  of  beasts  that  watch  the  loiterer, 

And  coiled  injustice  marking  him  its  own; 
Or  else  a  dreary  waste  of  desert  zone 

That  stretches  far  in  dim  horizon  line; 
Or  mountain  fastnesses  with  paths  unknown 

And  depths  wherein  no  friendly  ray  may  shine. 
But  with  the  comrade  of  all  comrades,  life 

Is  guarded,  sweet  the  common  joys  and  woes; 
A  voice  beside  him  singing,  and  the  strife 

That  wages  round  him  all  unheeded  goes. 
A  song,  and  all  the  world  for  him  can  change, 
Only  a  song, — yet,  it  were  passing  strange. 


LAKE  TAHOE. 

A  lake  of  sapphire  rimmed  with  jade 
That  shimmers  from  the  eye 

To  pale  blue  peaks  that  melt  and  fade 
Against  a  paler  sky. 

A  plain  of  polished  glass  that  gleams 
With  brilliant  dancing  light, 

And  softened  round  the  margin  dreams 
In  pictured  malachite. 

A  lake  of  indigo  and  oil, 

The  boat,  a  silver  wedge; 
Two  trains  of  brilliants  flash  and  coil 

Back  from  the  cleaving  edge. 

Far  at  the  head  Mount  Tallac  lifts 
His  crest,  brought  strangely  near, 

His  jealous  crags  hold  fast  the  drifts 
Through  all  the  coaxing  year. 

The  listening  pines  around  the  brink 
Pause  in  their  whispering, 

Beneath  the  brim  their  needles  sink 
To  waves  soft  murmuring. 

Around,  on  guard,  in  hollow  square, 
Snow-decked  Sierras  stand, 

To  guard  this  lake  so  rare,  so  fair, — 
This  daughter  of  the  band. 

Beware  this  smiling  lake,  beware 

This  lake  of  mystery; 
Who  sinks  but  once  beneath  the  fair 

Blue  crystal,  sinks  for  aye! 

And  unknown  currents  seize  and  clasp 

Unsounded  depths  to  tell: 
The  secrets  kept  within  their  grasp 

Are  kept  forever  well. 


SOUL  TO  BODY. 

Body,  I  grieve  to  see  you  so, 

Almost  regret  I  let  you  go; 

Yet  all  your  misery  is  done, 

While  mine, — who  knows? — is  just  begun. 

But  we  had  borne  to  our  full  strength 

Of  agony,  had  known  the  length 

Of  human  pain  and  human  woe, — 

Then  fell  that  superhuman  blow! 

Despair,  the  tempter,  planned  the  way, 

In  those  calm  depths  you  should  obey. 

I  made  you  yield  and  still  your  arms, 

I  made  you  stifle  your  alarms; 

And  death  was  easier  for  you 

Than  all  the  thousand  deaths  we  knew 

In  life.    Oh,  it  was  bravely  done, 

My  body, — I,  the  coward,  won! 

Farewell!    We  had  been  comrades  long, — 

Body,  I  meant  to  do  no  wrong! 

It  must  be  sweet  to  lie  so  still, 

To   find   oblivion  until 

Atom  by  atom  be  resolved 

And  will  and  thought  and  self  absolved! 

Farewell!    I  go  to  unknown  fate; 

The  pang  of  parting  comes  too  late. 

Drawn  by  a  power  to  realms  above: 

To  judgment?    Ah,  but  God  is  love! 


LOVE  SONG. 

Moonrise  or  sunrise,  day  or  night, 

My  heart  forever  sings, 
Sings  till  the  world  seems  all  delight, — 

"I  love,  sweetheart,  love  thee!" 

Give  to  the  world  all  else  but  keep 

This  answer  all  for  me; 
Sing  me  the  song  that  thrills  my  sleep: 

"I  love,  I  love  but  thee!" 

Once  the  refrain  were  lost  to  me, 

The  joy  of  life  were  fled; 
Silence  that  voice  of  ecstasy, 

Then  life  and  love  were  dead. 

Heard  I  the  song,  though  I  were  dead, 

'T would  be  a  talisman; 
Fearless,  I'd  follow  where  it  led, 

For  love,  for  love  of  thee! 


MERIT. 

Give  Success  its  meed  of  praises, 

Famous  song  and  deathless  phrases: 

Weight  of  wisdom,  wealth  of  power, 

Genius   like   a   wondrous   flower, 

All  shall  have  their  measured  glory, 

Wreath   of   bay   and   martial   story. 

But  a  sweeter  incense  render, — 

Born  of  pity,  human,  tender, — 

Fated   Unsuccess  whose  striving 

Gained   no   crown   of   man's   contriving; 

Heard  no  plaudits,  wrought  no  wonder, 

Rent  no  mystic  veil  asunder. 

Like   the  box   of  alabaster 

That  the  woman  brought  the  Master, 

Bring   the    finest    intuition, 

Know  dead  hopes  and  vain  ambition; 

Feel  the  strife   and  know  his  weakness, 

Bear   defeat   in   noble    meekness: 

Then  a  victory  he   sought  not 

Give   to   him,   O   ye  who   fought  not! 

Like  the  precious  ointment  give  it, 

And  a  blessing  shall  outlive  it. 


EXPECTANCY. 

A  flower  lifts  its  drooping  head, 
The  air  is  moist  with  coming  rain; 

"A  shower  near,"  the  light  wind  said, 
And  roused  each  petal's  languid  vein. 

A  thousand  leaves  within  a  wood, 
Alert  to  greet  the  passing  breeze; 

Upon  its  poised  stem  each  one  stood, — 
The  gay  breeze  whirled  through  distant  trees. 

A  child  with  upturned  eager  face 
And  grave  eyes  whose  beseeching  gaze 

Asks  with  a  longing,  wistful  grace 
A  promised  joy  that  time  delays. 

A  maiden  at  the  trysting  place; 

The  world  a  hum  of  noises  seems. 
She  hears  her  lover's  step  outrace 

The  world  of  sound, — so  fast  she  dreams. 

An  old  man  leans  upon  his  staff; 

Old  friends  are  gone  and  all  is  dead 
That  gave  a  sparkle  to  his  laugh, — 

He  plans  no  more,  but  waits,  instead. 


PROOF. 

Unseal  the  eyes  of  men  who  seek 
A  proof  of  immortality; 
Reveal  a  truth  that  all  may  see, 
Let  one  great  law  of  Nature  speak. 

Prove  that  this  spirit  will  not  die, 
Prove  that  this  body  is  not  all, 
Prove  that  this  soul  we  know  and  call 
Our  own,  is  ours  for  aye  and  aye. 

It  must  be  evidence  for  one 
Who  sees  component  parts  alone, — 
Even  the  star  dust  is  a  stone 
When  his  analysis  is  done. 

Thus  are  we  brought  to  common  things, — 
Plummet  and  scale  and  measured  line; 
Banished  are  faith  and  hope  divine, 
Worship  and  all  tradition  brings. 

Economy  the  proof  has  found: 
The  reign  of  this  law  everywhere, — 
In  land  and  sea,  in  earth  and  air, — 
Proclaims  it  rests  on  common  ground. 

God  is  the  great  economist: 

In  countless  change  through  ages  tossed, 

The  smallest  atom  is  not  lost 

To  Him,  the  master  alchemist. 

The  great  Sequoia  shares  the  fate 
Of  wood-bloom  that  a  day  has  braved; 
To  serve  His  purpose  both  are  saved, — 
To  serve  and  wait,  to  serve  and  wait. 

Will  He  who  knows  not  loss,  strike  out 
The  fairest  product  of  His  hand? 
Will  He,  who  knows  not  waste,  command 
This  wanton  waste?     Oh,  who  can  doubt 

That  progress  of  the  thought  of  man, — 
First  gift  of  God, — will  not  be  lost! 
The  Maker  knows  no  holocaust 
Like  this,  in  all  His  wondrous  plan! 

Annihilation  is  a  fate 
Unknown  in  all  the  natural  world; 
Then  who  shall  say  this  curse  is  hurled 
At  that  fair  soul  we  consecrate? 


The  march  of  progress  leads  me  on, 
I  am  a  soldier  with  the  rest; 
But,  keeping  step,  I  claim  my  best,— 
My  soul  is  mine  and  mine  alone! 

Will  He  blot  out  this  gain,  withdraw 

This  glory  of  identity? 

Deny  the  monstrous  infamy 

And  prove  it  false  by  one  great  law! 


INVOCATION. 

Hail,  Spirit  of  the  Night, 
Voice  of  the  Infinite! 
Charm  with  thy  soft  moonlight, 
Mortals  to  thee! 
Summon  the  secrets  old, 
Thy  scrolls  of  stars  unfold, 
Ever,  yet  never,  told — 
O  wondrous  Night! 

World  among  countless  ones, 
Wheeling  to  countless  suns; 
Ever  the  riddle  runs, 
"Oh,  whither  bound?" 
Ages  these  seas  have  glowed, 
Ages  these  tides  have  flowed, — 
What  do  the  years  forebode? 
O  magic  Night! 


ALOFT. 

O  mountain  top,  could  I  meet  death 

Upon  thy  friendly  crest, 
With  upturned  face  and  bated  breath 

Await  my  promised  rest! 

This  drifting  Earth  and  I  must  part 

Upon  an  unknown  sea; 
And  all  are  mute  as  my  own  heart 

To  show  the  course  to  me. 

It  seems  that  I  could  see  my  way, — 
To  soar,  to  meet,  to  stop, — 

From  thy  masthead  the  call  obey, 
O  friendly  mountain  top! 


VICTORY. 
"I  will  not  have  it  so!"  I  said. 

"You  cannot  stay  it,"  said  the  world. 
"Then  I  will  fight  till  I  am  dead!" 

My  armor  girt,  my  flag  unfurled. 

Till  faint  and  weary,  wounded  sore 
And  choked  with  battle  smoke, — I  won! 

The  victor  stood  alone  no  more, 
What  eager  voices  cried,  "Well  done!" 

A  lauding  host  proclaimed  me  crowned 
With  virtues — fainter  came  the  sound, — 

Great  heart  peace  and  great  soul  peace  drowned, 
The  fickle  world's  applause. 


A  MOOD. 
I  know  a  mood  so  rich  in  joy  of  life, 

So  bound  about  with  happy  memories 
And  fair  and  radiant  future,  rife 

With  hopes, — space,  atoms,  worlds,  are  harmonies. 

No  black  nor  tawdry  thought  may  enter  here, 
Nor  chilling  shapes  of  grim  and  awful  fears; 

Enwrapt  in  beauty  like  an  atmosphere, 
Soul  speaks  to  body  in  a  rush  of  tears! 


DEEDS. 

Deeds  bring  a  crown  or  a  lash, 
Children  of  spirit  and  flesh: 
Angels  that  comfort  and  cheer, 
Demons  that  torture  with  fear; 
Born  in  a  breath, 
Live  through  all  life  and  all  death. 


SYMPATHY. 
I  flung  the  window  wide, 

My  heart  was  dull  with  care, 
A  frantic  voice  wild  cried — 

My  heeding  was  not  there. 

At  length  its  terror  woke 
My  fear-numbed  heart  to  see, 

And  o'er  my  soul  there  broke 
A  flood  of  sympathy. 

Ah!  little  bird,  how  like, 
How  like  we  earth-born  are! 

"Our  nest!     Our  tree !"— Alike, 
We  banish  Peace  afar. 


TO  THE  NEW  HOME. 
(Ode  to  the  Century  Club  on  Laying  the  Corner  Stone.) 

With  eyes  that  look  through  tears  across  a  space 
Into  the  past  where  some  we  loved  have  stood, 

Whose  unseen  presence  fills  a  vacant  place 
Within  the  circle  of  this  sisterhood: 

And  to  the  future,  where  we  know  must  be 
Only  an  empty,  vacant  place  for  some 
Who  stand  with  us  today  beneath  the  dome 
Of  an  unclouded  sky: 

To  place,  to  consecrate,  this  stone  we  come, 

To  build  a  dwelling-place,  a  hearth,  a  home. 

Now,  all  the  primal  impulse  of  a  man 

For  one  plot  of  the  earth  to  call  his  own, — 
A  sacred  passion  since  the  world  began, — 

Enraptures  with  a  joy  before  unknown. 
O,  may  this  home  be  filled  with  happiness, 

May  it  bring  higher  living,  peace  and  rest, 
Surcease  of  sorrow,  loneliness  and  care, 

Its  pleasures  numberless, 

A  haven  to  the  weary  and  oppressed, 
To  all  who  come,  to  all  who  enter  there. 


WINTER  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

It  rains;  they  say  that  Winter's  here — 

A  jovial,  genial  fellow,  he. 

His  great  fur  coat  is  swinging  wide, 

A  rose  its  lapel  bears  with  pride, 

Its  pocket  holds  a  fan  beside; 

A  jovial,  genial  fellow,  he. 

Poor,  haggard  Summer  whom  all  dread! 

He  basely  laughs  at  her  chagrin, 

Her  dun-colored  gown  and  veil,  poor  thing! 

He's  stolen  all  she  ought  to  bring, 

Forlorn  she's  left  through  pilfering; 

He  basely  laughs  at  her  chagrin. 

And  where  is  Spring,  that  joyous  youth? 
Some  breathe  a  dark  and  dreadful  tale, 
That  tells  an  old  man  murdered  lay, 
And  he  who  wears  his  garb  so  gay, 
Is  murderer  Spring,  with  fun  and  play,-' 
'Tis  better  90,  yet  breathes  the  tale. 


THE  TRAMP. 

He  carries  neither  scrip  nor  purse, 
But  begs  his  bread  and  saves  his  curse 

To  flavor  it. 

His  home  is  on  the  dusty  road; 
Here  is  his  living,  and  his  code 
Lies  in  his  wit. 

There  is  no  loving  cup  for  him, 
Instead,  the  cup  with  ragged  rim 

Of  charity. 

But,  though  he's  all  that  we  despise, 
Perhaps  in  this  a  reason  lies 

For  sympathy. 

Then  let  us  not  forget  the  day 
When  each  must  go  his  weary  way 

In  sorest  need; 
Across  the  borders  of  a  land 
With  unknown  paths  on  every  hand,— 

A  tramp  indeed! 


LOST— A  BOY. 

All  silent  is  the  lonely  house, 

Forever  free  from  noise; 
All  silent  save  for  thoughts  that  rouse 

The  presence  of  the  boys. 

For  he  is  gone,  the  boy  I  knew, 

Is  gone  beyond  recall; 
And  I  who  watched  him  as  he  grew, 

Most  desolate  of  all. 

He  tired  of  luxury  and  ease 
And  longed  for  rougher  ways, 

He  scorned  the  petty  pleasantries 
That  city  life  obeys. 

The  wide  world  claimed  him  for  its  own, 

To  keep  him  evermore. 
My  boy  is  gone, — forever  gone 

The  happy  days  of  yore! 

A  stranger  brought  the  news,  forsooth, 

He  told  it  gently,  too. 
But  in  his  eyes  I  read  the  truth, 

Of  words  there  were  but  few. 

My  child  who  left,  a  happy  boy, 

Returned  to  me,  a  man! 
And  was  it  pain  or  was  it  joy, 
O,  answer  me,  who  can? 


THE  FINISHED  CHURCH. 

The  light  falls  softly  through  the  pictured  pane, 

A  rose  and  golden  gleam,  a  purple  stain; 

The  silent  organ  makes  more  silent  still 

The  finished  church  that  waits  the  first  life  thrill. 

The  wav'ring  shadows  cluster  on  the  wall; 
From  their  pale  forms  faint  whispers  seem  to  call. 
Athwart  the  space  o'erhead  a  murmur  sweeps, 
"I  live!"  from  floor  to  roof  the  voice  outleaps. 

"My  solemn  trust  to  teach  not  text  but  soul, 
The  wondrous  Word  not  one  part  but  the  whole, — 
A  creed  of  praise  to  God  in  love  for  man, 
That  all's  divine  within  the  Maker's  plan. 

To  worship  not  alone  with  heart  or  hand, 
With  sanctioned  prayer  or  rite  obey  command, 
But,  kneeling,  with  God's  greatest  gift  adore, 
The  One  who  gave  the  mind  from  out  His  store. 

Here,  let  strong  brain  and  tender  heart  unite 
In  song,  unfettered,  praise  the  Infinite; 
Uphold  His  majesty,  protect  His  laws, 
And,  fearless,  seek  for  truth  within  the  cause." 

The  voice  is  stilled,  but  every  arch  responds, 
Each  purpling  window  quivers  in  its  bonds, 
Exultant  rings  the  organ  and  again 
Peal  answers  peal  in  glorious  "Amen!" 

January  31st,  1889. 


COMPENSATION. 

The  Master  prunes  with  care  his  orchard  trees 
And  cuts  the  rank,  waste  growth  of  selfishness 
Till  all  the  useless  branches  are  lopped  off. 
The  tree,  a-tremble  with  its  quickened  sap 
Forgets  its  wounds  in  one  great  upward  leap 
And,  stretching  forth  its  arms  to  heaven,  repays 
This  sorrow's  kindness  with  a  finer  fruit. 
Then,  would  the  tree  return  to  its  wild  state, 
To  bear  the  stunted  fruit  of  former  years? 
What  sorrow  wounds  the  quivering  soul  so  deep 
That  one  would  blot  it  out,  if  one  must  blot 
Out  with  it  all  the  added  growth  it  brought! 
The  law  of  compensation  moulds  this  clay 
Inexorably,  and  makes  heroes  of 
Us  all,  or  cowards  through  presentiment 
That  some  hard  lot  we  watched  descend  upon 
Another,  shall  one  day  become  our  own. 


Gay  lord  Bros. 

Makers 

-e,  X.  Y. 
PAT.  JAN.  21,  1908 


